


Well-Groomed

by thepopeisdope



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Castiel, Dom Dean, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sub Castiel, Top Dean, Wing Grooming, Wing Kink, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 22:21:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11999103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepopeisdope/pseuds/thepopeisdope
Summary: Dean helps Cas groom his wings.





	Well-Groomed

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying to get better about writing between writing, and actually getting things posted. Can you tell? 
> 
> I asked for prompts/inspiration on tumblr yesterday, and this is the result of that. (Post [here](http://thursdays-fallen-angel.tumblr.com/post/164979655000/well-groomed).) I have no regrets.

The big, black wings that spill off from each side of the bed are captivating, begging for Dean’s touch. They’re duller than they can be, Dean knows, desperately in need of a grooming—but then, that’s why he’s getting this opportunity to begin with.

Dean runs a hand down his angel’s spine, fingertips dancing in the space between his wings. He’s only gotten to do this once, but even just from that one experience, he knows what to expect. He knows to expect the way Cas arches up into his touch, knows to expect the breathy moan that passes between his lips. Most of all, he remembers Cas’ explanation as to why he’s so sensitive during an experience like this. It’s intimate, as personal as it can get for an angel, and inherently built on trust. Cas said himself that he wouldn’t let anyone but Dean help him with this.

And god, is Dean glad for that. A possessive thrill runs through his at the sight of his angel, spread out on the bed beneath him.

“Let’s start with this one, hm?” Dean says, voice pitched low, like he’s talking to a spooked animal. He drags his fingers through the left wing in emphasis, eliciting a low groan from Cas, along with a nod. _God_ , he’s so responsive. “Stay still for me, baby.”

He combs his fingers down the length of the left wing, shuffling down the bed slightly to be able to reach a bit further. First and foremost, he focuses on pulling out the loose feathers. There aren’t many of them, but the handful that do break away from the healthier bunch get deposited over on Dean’s nightstand, to be dealt with later. They’re good for spells, as both Sam and Cas would say, but Dean also just likes having them around. Little tokens that Cas was here, proof that Cas trusted him with this, that Cas trusts him with pieces of him.

By the time Dean has combed through the wing, there are at least two dozen feathers of various sizes on the nightstand, and Cas is shaking. Dean hushes him and runs his hand across Cas’ shoulder blades, easing his tension as he moves to straddle his thighs. They’re both only wearing boxers, which means that Dean can feel all the heat that Cas is putting out, right up against his own thighs.

Apparently it takes him too long to make his next move, because Cas wiggles impatiently beneath him. “Dean, get on with it.”

Dean chuckles, but reaches up to tug on Cas’ hair. It earns him a glare, Cas’ head turned to the side so he can look back at him and watch his work, but Dean only answers it with a grin. “Be patient, angel. I’ll make it worth it.”

Cas huffs, but doesn’t protest. Judging by the flush visible high on his cheeks, Dean knows there’s no argument for him to make, anyway.

Of course, it’s not as though Dean actually plans on teasing. Not without reward, at any rate. He rubs his thumbs into the dips at the base of Cas’ spine while waiting for him to relax and then, without warning, digs both of his hands into the soft, downy feathers at the base of Cas’ left wing. Cas cries out at the sudden stimulation, his right wing flaring open wide while the left dips down, pressing submissively against the bed. Cas squirms even more, and Dean tugs sharply on a handful of feathers to quiet him.

“Come on, angel,” he says. He pitches his voice just right, in that way that he knows gets Cas all hot and bothered. It’s not really a necessary addition right now, he admits, but Jesus, it’s fun. “Think you can stay quiet for me? Can’t go getting distracted by all those pretty sounds you make just yet. Not when I still have to actually groom you. Ain’t that right, beautiful?” He pauses, his fingers stilling in their movement. “Unless you want me to stop now?”

“No!” Cas rushes to say. His wing ripples from base to tip, convulsing beneath Dean’s fingers. “Please. Please, Dean, I need—”

“Yeah, I know, baby.” Dean’s fingers work through Cas’ feathers with a bit more intent, steadily getting closer to the small gland that he knows is nestled in among the denser, knotted tendons at the base of the limb. The first time he’d touched the gland, the first time Cas had asked him to help groom his wings (a request that was posed with an adorable amount of bashfulness, the angel all pink cheeks and nervously-twisting fingers), Cas had moaned louder than Dean had ever heard. Which, really, might have been insulting, if it hadn’t turned Dean on so much in turn.

He really, _really_ loves angelic biology.

When Dean’s fingertips find the gland, it’s already saturated with oil, making the feathers all along the base of the wing wet and shiny. The slick substance quickly coats Dean’s hands, the excess sliding in the gaps between his fingers and squelching through Cas’ feathers with every minute movement. Even without there being anything inherently dirty about it, it manages to be obscene.

“ _Deeaaaaannnn_.”

“Shh, baby.”

Dean loves having Cas like this, beneath him and aching for his touch, but despite the angel’s desperation (and Dean’s own erection, nestled in the dip of Cas’ ass and dragging teasingly against the confines of his boxers), he actually does have a job to do. He gathers up as much of the secreted oil as he can and starts to spread it, working it into the feathers along the upper arch of the wing and then dragging it downward from there.

Cas’ squirming lessens while Dean does the actual grooming, the rhythmic movements allowing him a reprieve from the most intense of the pleasure. He’s still rumbling enough sounds that Dean knows he’s continuing to enjoy himself, though, and that’s what matters.

At least, until he gets bored of that and decides to go back to the source for more oil. He doesn’t give Cas time to prepare before returning to the gland and rubbing over it firmly, knowing full well that he’s being harsher with it than he really needs to be. But when Cas reacts so beautifully, trembling beneath him and moaning out his pleasure, how can he resist?

He makes sure to spread his next dose of oil liberally across the front of the wing as well as the back, and though it takes a few more trips back to the gland, nearly manages to make it all the way to the tip. Cas’ feathers are gleaming, now, shining even in the relatively poor lighting that is signature to the bunker’s bedroom’s, but despite their improved quality, Dean’s desire to touch hasn’t abated in the slightest. This wing doesn’t need any more attention with grooming, sure, but now it’s just pretty as it gleams in the low light, and Dean _wants_.

As if he’s reading his thoughts (Dean wouldn’t rule it out), Cas chooses that moment to plead, “Dean— Dean, I—” The angel rocks his hips back, rubbing himself against the cock still resting against his ass, and Dean muffles the moan that threatens to escape. “I want to feel you.”

Dean stills for a fraction of a second, then grins wickedly. “You want to feel me, huh? Is that the most convincing way you can ask for me, angel? Something tells me…” He rakes his fingers through Cas’ feathers, moving against the grain as much as he dares for fear of actually crossing the line into discomfort. He leans down over Cas’ back, rutting slightly against the angel’s ass purely because he can, and whispers from a few inches above his ear, “You can do better than that.”

Cas whimpers in answer. “D-Dean.” His ass flexes, managing to squeeze Dean’s erection where it rests in the cleft. Dean bites his lip to hold back a moan, and Cas’ next words are rasping, desperate. “I want you to fuck me. I want to feel you inside of me.”

Dean hums in consideration. “Better.”

He grabs the top of Cas’ boxers with oil-slick fingers and yanks them down past the swell of the angel’s ass. Cas groans his approval and cants his hips up in blatant invitation, and Dean will never tire of that sight. With his hands already soaked with oil, it’s all too easy for him to sink a finger into Cas, all the way up to the knuckle.

The sound that Cas makes is hardly human.

“Good?” Dean asks teasingly.

Cas clenches around the single finger in answer, and grinds out, “ _More_ , Dean.”

Dean, never one to refuse, slips a second finger in alongside the first. He knows that Cas can take it, and that his angel doesn’t like to be treated gently, besides. He reaches as deeply inside of Cas as he can, spreading and scissoring his fingers. The angel tries to push back into Dean’s fingers, but when his other hand returns to the oil gland at the base of his wing, Cas’ movements become much less coordinated. Cas whimpers as Dean coaxes more and more oil from it, until the liquid is running down the seam of Cas’ wing and skin in rivulets.

He only draws his fingers out of Cas’ ass to scoop up more of the oil, now saturating Cas’s feathers and the bedsheets beneath them, and then presses it directly back inside of him. A third finger is added at the same time, and his cock twitches at the way Cas keens in response.

The task of grooming is entirely forgotten by this point, Dean being entirely focused on stretching Cas open as he is. But, judging by the way Cas is writhing against the bed, neither of them really minds the diversion.

However, it isn’t long before Dean’s fingers aren’t enough for Cas—or for Dean, for that matter, who is so hard it’s difficult to think clearly—and the angel is writhing in a wordless plea for more. Dean can see the desperation written across the muscled ridges of his shoulders, in the tight, barely-controlled twitches of his wings, the left limb still in Dean’s hold.

Dean, always adept at reading his lover, knows exactly what to give him.

Cas whines an objection when Dean withdraws his fingers, but Dean pays him no mind. He has to roll halfway away from the angel in order to get his boxers off, but once they’re gone—and Cas’ have been completely pulled away, too, for good measure—he resumes his position as if he had never left it.

He gathers a bit more oil from Cas’ glands to spread over his cock, buries a hand back in Cas’ feathers for leverage, then shoves into him, burying his cock in Cas’ tight heat. The angel chokes out a moan, his wing pressing up into Dean’s hand in a needy arch. It makes for a good handle, which Dean uses to pull Cas back against him and get even deeper. He waits for a moment, just like that, adjusting to the overload of sensations and letting Cas do the same, the angel gasping against the sheets.

And then Cas tightens around him and gives his hips an aborted twist. “Dean, if you don’t fuck me—”

“Ah ah—” Dean pulls on Cas’ wing and grinds his hips forward, causing Cas’ words to turn into a needy moan. That’s not how this works. “You’re not really in a position to make demands, angel. Try asking nicely.”

Cas makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat, clearly debating whether he should object to that or not—they’re not always like this, after all, Dean isn’t always the one in the position of power and Cas doesn’t often give himself up easily—and then the tension drains from his shoulders, his wings going lax. He twists to meet Dean’s gaze over his shoulder, blue eyes hooded and glassy.

“Please, Dean. Please fuck me. I need you.”

And there are those magic words. Dean’s hips jerk involuntarily, and a moan falls from his lips before he manages to regain control of himself. He slips his hand over from Cas’ hip to grab at his ass instead. It’s a good ass. He likes it.

He nods at Cas, and gentles the hand petting over his wing. “Yeah, baby. I got you.”

Dean pulls back, then fucks into Cas with as much force as he can manage. It’s a bit difficult to focus on force with his position, still mostly straddling Cas’ thighs as he is, but it feels great to even just grind himself into Cas. He knows just the angle to take to drag his cock over Cas’ prostate, as well, and between that and his easy access to Cas’ oil glands, it’s almost too easy to keep the angel moaning.

But of course, he doesn’t want his angel moaning _too_ much. Not when they’ve only just started, and he knows he can draw this out for a bit longer.

With that goal in mind, Dean relocates both of his hands to Cas’ hips, latching onto those sinful hipbones with his oil-slicked fingers and using the new grip to pull Cas back against him with even more force than before. It may have been fun to pull on his wings, but this is more direct, and grants him more control over every cant of Cas’ hips. He holds Cas still as he takes the opportunity to grind into him, hardly thrusting now. His focus is entirely on Cas as he does it, watching for the angel’s every reaction. He knows Cas loves this, knows he loves to feel full, but the evidence of that is Dean’s favorite part.

Cas, true to form, stifles a scream of pleasure in his forearm. The sound turns into a moan once it has lost its edge, and the surprise at the change in pace has faded. Cas gives back enthusiastically. His hips swivel in Dean’s hold, grinding himself back onto Dean’s cock. It isn’t until Dean slaps a hand across his ass that he stops, a sharp cry bursting from his lips as he relinquishes control once again.

“Be patient, sweetheart. I’ll get you there.”

Cas doesn’t answer with words, but the way his wings flex and shudder is more than enough to signify his surrender. His hips stop their grinding movements, giving Dean back the ability to move them as he sees fit. He pulls Cas up just slightly, just enough to change his angle, and then goes right back to grinding into Cas with abandon. Each time Dean slides over his prostate—which is often, because Dean is hardly new at this—Cas’ wings flare out, and then curl back toward his spine in obvious pleasure when Dean’s cock withdraws from that spot again. It’s a mesmerizing pattern, and Dean adores watching it.

But when Dean’s rhythm starts to stutter, he knows he needs to up the ante. He refuses to come before Cas does, especially with all of the build-up the angel has received. The dirty grind shifts back toward relentless thrusting, and Dean fists a hand in each of Cas’ wings. While he fully intends to go back to Cas’ glands at that point, to massage them until Cas’ pleasure peaks, it turns out that he doesn’t have to. Between the increase in his speed and his fingers tangling into those onyx feathers, as soon as Dean sets out to make Cas come, the angel is crying out. His entire body goes rigid, and his wings convulse in Dean’s grip as he comes over the bedsheets beneath them.

Only a few more seconds pass before Dean is following his angel’s example. He ruts a few final times, and then his hips still, flush against Cas’ ass, and his orgasm finally crests. Cas moans one last time as Dean’s cock empties inside of the blissed-out angel, and Dean can’t help but echo the sound, bending to press his forehead to Cas’ shoulder blades as he rides out his orgasm. When he’s completely spent, all of his energy sapped, he slumps down beside Cas and forces himself under the glossy black wing that raises just a little to allow him access and catches him in a warm cocoon. This way, they’re lying face-to-face, both flushed and panting for breath. Cas’s lips are set in a lazy half-smile. Currently, they’re unable to move any more than they already have, but warm and sated as he is, Dean has no problem with that.

He has no idea how long it is before he regains control of his body, but when he does, he drags himself a few inches closer to Cas, getting near enough to be able to press a sloppy kiss to his lips. Cas hums at the contact, and they both smile into it. When they part, though, Dean doesn’t bother to hide his smirk.

“So, how about that other wing?”


End file.
